


Since From Myself Again I Turn

by Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Agent Carter Spoilers, Conditioning, F/M, Gen, I have a lot of feelings, I just watched Agent Carter . . ., Mind-fuckery, Past Child Abuse, Red Room, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf/pseuds/Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having just arrived at SHIELD from the Red Room, Natasha has a lot of conditioning to get over.  Clint is determined to help.</p><p>"Some things she doesn’t even want to think about."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since From Myself Again I Turn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelittlestbishop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestbishop/gifts).



> Umm yes so I just watched Agent Carter 1x05 "The Iron Curtain," and came out with basically endless feelings regarding the episode, the show, Dottie Underwood, and, of course, Natasha Romanoff. And a lot of headcanons. Which I knew I had to fic. Sooo here I am enjoy the paaain.
> 
> Oh yeah, title is from this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrRO8AyyPqg Like check these lyrics:  
> My care is like my shadow  
> Laid bare beneath the sun  
> It follows me at all times  
> And flies when I pursue it
> 
> Anywaaays, this fic is of course dedicated to Karen bcuz mostly I wrote it to torture her. Anyways. Enjoy!

The first few nights, it’s not a problem. They’re keeping her in the sick bay, so both her arms are strapped to the bed. And she has other things to worry about anyways. Like when they’re going to start interrogating her, or when her handler is going to come take her back or when Agent Barton is finally going to take what he wants from her; what she owes him. The healing stab wound in her side is frankly the least of her worries. Except after a few days, they take her a different room, one with a door that locks. She thinks it must be their version of a cell, but it’s altogether nicer than any place she’s slept that wasn’t for a cover.  That night is the hardest. The leave her with nothing but the SHIELD uniform they gave her and the furniture in the room, which consists of a bed, a toilet, and a sink. That night she sleeps with one hand – her left, always her left – up by the head of the small bed, her wrist as close to the metal as she can get it. Or at least, she tries to sleep. Most of the night is spent in waking nightmares, and it’s uncomfortable enough that she feels pain. Not real pain, she knows. It’s all in her head. Not, of course, that Natalia – Natasha – can always tell whether the things in her head are real or not anyways. Still.

The next day they take her to interrogation. She’s surprised when they never make any move to torture her. They don’t even threaten it. She wonders if they’re trying to trick her, and plan to force her into thinking she’s safe here before beginning true interrogation. Barton of course promised that she would be unharmed if she came, and she is telling them most of what they want to hear. It may be painful, but she left the Red Room, and if SHIELD wants to take them down, she’s perfectly on-board to help them. Some things though, she can’t tell. Some things she doesn’t even want to think about; the feel of a neck, small and delicate, breaking under the pressure of her arms, so easy; so tender.

They end the interrogation for the day surprisingly early, she thinks. Any good interrogator knows to keep pressing until they break, keep going until they’re too tired to refuse. As they’re taking her from the room, she swipes the cuffs from the table without drawing any notice – picking locks is one of her many talents. She takes them out from under her top after they lock her for the night, and when she clicks the cuff into place, tight over the old scars on her left wrist, she feels better already. Last night wasn’t her first night without the cuffs, of course. She’d had to go without while undercover, sometimes, but then she had felt at least a little better about it, because she was doing service for her country, repaying her . . . Natasha forces herself to stop. She left the Red Room. Willingly. She’s not going back, even if it hurts.  Still, she sleeps better that night with old comforts, and in the morning, she feels rested enough that she accepts Barton’s offer to take a meal with him in the mess hall after her interrogation for the day. They had been feeding her before, but she’d been eating in her cell up until now. Interrogation is nothing new. They clearly hadn’t noticed the missing handcuffs, or perhaps they just didn’t care, because she was sure they had a video feed of her cell. After the agent finishes asking her questions and releases her to Barton, she figures they’ll wait and start the torture tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.

“The American Government’s tax dollars at work,” he says, his voice far to happy and excited, as they enter the mess hall, his arms spreading to point to the assembly line with that looks to be actually decent food. She’s had better while undercover, but it really doesn’t look that bad, and not only is there plenty of it, but no one appears to be monitoring how much people take. Still, she keeps the portions on her plate small, and swipes a couple of rolls to shove into her clothing before anyone sees. They might stop feeding her tomorrow. And anyways, it feels much better to at least have something, just in case.

Barton talks almost nonstop as they sit and eat their dinner, and Natasha wonders if this is going to be his lead up to telling her what he really wants for her. She supposes it could be worse. The man isn’t unattractive. Mostly she regrets that she’ll likely lose her stolen rolls in the process. Except, after they finish eating, he takes her back to her cell, continuing to talk until the guards shut her in and lock the door. That night she sleeps uneasily again, even with the comfort of the cuffs in place. Surely, tomorrow will be the day. She wonders what sort of techniques they’ll use. If they were smart, they would’ve started already. A little sleep deprivation goes a long way.

She wakes at the same time she wakes up every day, uncuffing herself and ignoring the slight stinging on her wrist as she sits up and faces the door, thankful that she managed to hide the rolls for later. The real interrogation will almost certainly not include meals. She hopes, at least, that they will not burn her. Natasha Romanoff fears nothing, but she despises fire for reasons she struggles to understand. Nevertheless she stays still, staring straight ahead as footsteps approach, and the door swings open. Except, it’s not the agent who has been interrogating her. It’s Barton. Clint, as he’s instructed her to call him. She frowns. Is this part of their tactics? But he doesn’t take her to interrogation. He takes her to breakfast, and after, once she’s had enough time to digest, to a large gym. It’s confusing, but she keeps her expression blank, instead staying still and looking at him.

In return, he grins, and motions with his arms. “Anything you want to do, as long as you promise not to kill anyone. If you’re going to work for SHIELD eventually, it would hardly be fair for us to keep you from staying in shape.” It’s fairly reasonable, she supposes, and she makes her way to a treadmill. First, a warm-up, and then she can get to the real training. She wonders if anyone will spar with her, or if she’s even allowed.

___________________________________________________________________________________

After their bout in the gym, Clint’s pretty sure he wants to collapse. She’d refrained from killing him, though, so he thought that was proof enough that she wasn’t going to betray them. Agent Sadowski had taken her back to interrogation anyways though, to get the rest of her story, and Clint had to admit that the more intel on this place she’d come from, the Red Room, the better. He takes a shower, and spends most of the rest of the day avoiding paperwork, reading up on the mission he’s set to start tomorrow, and messing with Coulson. Then, much later, he goes back to get Romanoff. Technically he doesn’t have to. They’ve been bringing her food in her cell. But god she looked sad enough already, and Clint doesn’t know anyone that couldn’t use some company at a meal. So they go back to get the shitty food at the mess hall, and then he realizes that she hasn’t showered since they sparred this morning. So he takes her to the communal showers, and stands outside the stall, careful not to peek even once she’s out and changing into a new uniform. Probably stupid; she could kill him in seconds, but he decided several days ago to trust her, and he was going to stick with it.

Interrogation had run pretty long, so by the time they’ve arrived back at her cell, it’s late. He follows her all the way in, and wishes her a good night, to which, as usual, she responds with silence and a blank look. She shifts as she steps further into the room, and Clint’s eyes catch on shiny metal glinting near the head of the bed. Handcuffs. He frowns. SHIELD wouldn’t be cuffing her in here, where the security was incredibly high and the doors closed with several complicated locks. So why are the cuffs here? It doesn’t make any sense, so later, after he’s left and waited long enough for her to reasonably be asleep, he goes back. He leaves for his mission in six hours, but sleep was always more questionable for him anyways, so he doesn’t much care. Besides, he can sleep on the plane.

Clint nods to the guards standing by her door as he approaches, and then peeks through the small window, zeroing in on where he’d noticed the cuff. It’s not lying limp anymore. Instead, he can see it very clearly on her left wrist, which is splayed out from the rest of her body, looking uncomfortably as if it must be pulling painfully on her, with the rest of her curled tight on the opposite side of the bed. But she’s sound asleep, or at least, as sound as an assassin like her could be. His frown deepens. What the fuck? He turns back to the guards. “Who ordered the cuffs?” he demands.

They both give him confused looks, and he nods towards the window. After peering through, the first guard frowns at him, her voice just as confused as her face. “No one. We didn’t cuff her. I-I don’t know where she got those.” Which only makes it even more confusing.

___________________________________________________________________________________

His mission lasts three days, and is utterly exhausting, but the moment medical clears him, he goes straight to Romanoff’s cell, pleased to find her not there. He lets himself in, and wastes no time in picking the lock of the cuffs hanging from the bed, shoving them into his pocket. There’s really no need for her to be cuffed to the bed, and Clint doesn’t understand why someone had clearly ordered it. He picks her up for dinner again, this time from therapy – apparently she’d progressed from prisoner-to-be-interrogated to prisoner-to-be-examined-for-mental-fuckery. Which she apparently had plenty of. When he finally takes her back to her cell, he can see her visibly flinch upon entering, though she hides it fast, and when he comes back again later that night, she’s not sleepy particularly soundly, and despite the lack of cuffs, she’s curled in exactly the same position she’d been last time, with her left arm curled uncomfortable behind her, close to the top corner of the bed. The hell?

He has the next day off, and therefore comes up with excuses to follow her around and stay with her literally the entire day. It’s not until they’re on their way back that he only barely sees her swipe a set of handcuffs from a guard. He doesn’t confront her though. Instead, after leaving her cell, he sprints to security, and barters his way into the room with the video feeds, quickly locating the one in Natasha’s cell and settling in to watch. It takes some time, but finally, she appears to be getting ready for bed, sitting down on it, and then . . . she clasps one cuff around the bed, locking it into place, and then the other around her own left wrist. He leaves the room wondering what the hell kind of a place the Red Room was. He also wonders, of course, why exactly she’s cuffing herself to the bed at night, and how to get her to stop.

So the next day, he buys a scarf. A nice one, too, made of expensive silk. Then, while she’s in therapy, he goes back into her cell, and takes the new set of cuffs. Then, he knots one end of the scarf around the bed, just where the cuffs had been. If this was some kind of habit, or part of her training, well . . . the scarf would hurt less, right? Except, when he comes back that night, the scarf is nowhere to be seen, and instead, she’s back in that same position, with a new pair of cuffs locked around her wrist and the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp yeah don't worry that's not the end. I tried to make this a oneshot, I really did, but I'm too tired to write in quality anymore and I desperately want to post tonight buuut Clint is not cool with me leaving it here. So yes updates soon hopefully! Leave me a comment to let me know what you think! Or just to cry with me about feelings that works too.
> 
> Also, FYI, while I will attempt to be posting the updates in a timely fashion, this fic will likely take place over a fairly long period of time, yeah.


End file.
